Simbelmynë
by Losseniaiel
Summary: Beyond the death of her dreams, Éowyn finds a reality far dearer to her.


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Simbelmynë

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Disclaimers: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I am making no money from this and intend no infringement of copyright.

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Rating: PG.

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Summary: Beyond the death of her dreams, Éowyn finds a reality far dearer to her.

Thanks to **Lalaith** and **Isis** for betaing this.

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Dearly she had loved him, the Lord Aragorn, a legend made flesh walking out of the tales of old, a bright glimmer to lighten the dying days of Rohan ,and to give back to her the honour and glory of her house. Tall and fair he seemed, before the doors of golden Meduseld, even as his forefathers surely had been when they were borne out of the depths of the seas, returning to Middle-earth on the wings of the storm. Might was in his grey eyes, keen and bright, and wisdom, and the knowledge of many things which had passed away, and many things which were yet to come. Andúril, the Flame of the West, burnt at his side, and its blade was as fearsome light unto her, but neither so fell nor so fair as that which lit his eyes, a greater glory than all the flaming of the burnished stars of the heavens.

And she loved him for the memories he kindled within her breast, the songs which soared in her mind, and the visions which swum before her waking eyes. Long had she thought them forgotten, buried beneath the soils of Rohan, veiled by the grey mists of dawn drifting across the grasslands, girlish dreams alone. But she remembered _him_, the stranger who had ridden from the North in her fourteenth year, so long ago now it seemed. Tall, he had also been, and very fair, his face pale and grave, and his eyes darkened by some sorrow of which he would not speak, although it was ever in his voice. Less mark of rank or dignity had he worn even than the Lord Aragorn, and his words were as free for the lowliest maid as for the king himself, and yet there was some grace to him surpassing all she had known. Majesty seemed to adorn his broad brow, and there was a mantle of light to him, shining in his eyes, and raising his voice in a sweetness passing fair as he joined the songs and stories when the night drew in, and the shadows crowded the Golden Hall. Dim had been the voices of the wolf-wind that winter, but ever had his eyes turned to the North, and on a time his gaze would wander thence to the West, as the sun was falling into splendour above the ridges and peaks of the White Mountains. Watching him from the shadows, her mantle wind-whipped, her golden hair choked by the snow, she had seen the years weigh heavily on him. And yet he had not seemed to her a man bowed down by griefs and the weight of the years, until age settled upon him, and fleet-fingered time robbed him of his vigour, but as a hale warrior in the fullness of his strength, made stronger yet by his sorrows. A king she had thought him then, and had loved him. Taking her mantle in her hand, she had slipped nigh unto him, her heart alight with a great fire, and she had kissed him, her hands on his broad shoulders.

But he had taken her hands in his, and put her from him with kindliness in his eyes, and regard, but no love.

"Nay, child. 'Tis not given to you to find the happiness you seek at this time." He sighed. "And mine lies far to the West, and the Seas are wide indeed." He raised his hand, and she thought she caught a glint of gold there, a plain band simply wrought, and she understood, although it grieved her mightily.

How lost she had been then, bereft of the golden sunlight she had seen slanting through the bars of her wretched cage, so much fairer than all its own gilding. In the dark watches of the night, when the wind screamed through the rafters, she thought she could hear the singing of the nightingales, plangent and sweet in some far off place before the world was broken and the seas sundered.

And then had come the dying days, and Rohan and its White Lady had fallen into a long darkness to which it seemed there could be no dawn. And yet beyond all hope had Gandalf returned their king unto them, and she set her eyes upon the Lord Aragorn, and loved once more. For she saw in him some of her fair stranger, in the tilt of his chin as he listened to the words of Théoden King, in the light she beheld in his grey eyes, in the sorrowing lilt of his voice, and in his noble puissance. As far above all men he seemed as that shadow of old, and as glorious.

And yet now Midsummer was nearly upon the realms of Rohan and of Gondor, the sunlight lying on the land like honeyed wine, and she beheld that long-remembered face once more amid the crowds of the Golden Hall, like a glint of lightning, and of song out of the Elder Days, out of the depths of time, and read the sorrow written there, and the joy. Truly then she understood, and marvelled upon it, that such things should come to pass in her days, and before her own sight. And yet her pity was only for him, and not for herself, and it was with a glad heart that she watched as the Lady Arwen passed away in long procession South, from Rohan to Minas Arnor of the Kings, and to Aragorn Elessar, to doom, and to love.

But Éowyn's heart was uplifted, and she felt neither sorrow nor grief for the Evenstar's journey, and she called again to her mind the beloved face of the Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and laughed aloud. Less high he was, but far more fair to her eyes than they had ever been, for truly she loved him, not with distant awe, and the soldier's fear of the gilded cage, but with knowledge, and with compassion, and tender closeness. The grey light was in his eyes as in theirs, but nearer unto her, as the starlight playing in the waters of a tumbling brook, and she felt love answer it in her own, and the ice melt, and the cage fall away, and remembered his arms about her, and was filled with hope.

"No longer do I desire to be a queen," she called out, as she had once before high upon the walls of Minas Tirith.

And somewhere far away, she thought she could hear the nightingales singing beyond the Sea.

FINIS.

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End file.
